


Making Weight

by roebling



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Embarrassment, Embarrassment Kink, Exhibitionism, Fat Shaming, Feeding, Food Kink, Galaxy Garrison, Internalized Kink Shaming, Kink Discovery, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Medical Kink, Messy eating, Stuffing, Teasing, Weight Gain, ace pidge, feederism, non-voltron au, working out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-13
Updated: 2017-12-13
Packaged: 2019-02-14 04:10:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12999558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roebling/pseuds/roebling
Summary: Lance is one of the best pilot cadets at the Galaxy Garrison, but when it's time for his physical he discovers he has a problem: he's underweight. An off-hand suggestion from his best buddy and roommate Hunk leads them both to discover a whole lot more than they bargain for.





	Making Weight

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: This story is a fetish story that deals explicitly with weight gain, eating and body image. There are some elements of the story that are unrealistic or heightened for ~kinky~ effect. Also, several innocent bystanders are drawn into scenarios that our protagonists view as kinky. Finally, there is significant fetishization of the negative health effects of rapid and unhealthy weight gain in this story. IF THAT'S NOT YOUR THING PLEASE DON'T READ!! I've tried to tag as explicitly as possible, but as always if you need more information please comment and I'll do my best to let you know what you're getting in to. I can't emphasize enough that this is explicit weight gain fantasy and that you shouldn't read this if this kink isn't your thing and it's going to make you unhappy or upset in any way.
> 
> This is set in some vague and undefined no Voltron universe where everyone is still a student at the Galaxy Garrison. It started as just a fun little story I worked on when I needed a break from other projects, and it grew from there. This was written pretty quickly and not edited by a second party, so I cannot promise there are no errors. It's not the finest writing in the world, but hopefully someone out there will enjoy :)

"Well, young man," the doctor says. "Let's see how you're doing." 

Lance frowns and steps on to the scale. 

He knows how this is going to go. 

Dr. Ocampo is about a million years old. He's hunched and wrinkly, and only a sparse dusting of white hair covers the shiny top of his bald head. Lance stares down at the top of that head while the scale registers his weight. The numbers flash once, twice, and then settle. 

"A hundred and twenty two point six pounds. And your body fat percentage is only sixteen," Dr. Ocampo says, making some notes on his tablet. "I'm sorry, Lance, but you're still too low." 

Lance exhales. "Come on, doc, can't you cut me some slack? I just have a naturally slim physique. Who made up these dumb weight requirements anyway?" 

Dr. Ocampo shoves his glasses up his nose. "A very respected panel of top military, scientific, and medical professionals recommended the current physical fitness guidelines for the Galaxy Garrison." He narrows those foggy old man eyes. "A panel that I chaired, young man." 

Oh great. Open mouth, insert foot. Lance’s specialty. Maybe flattery will work. 

"I'm sure an esteemed and experienced doctor like yourself can tell what good shape I'm in." Lance lifts an arm and flexes, and okay, so he's kind of skinny. He's still got muscle. Sort of. "The very peak of physical fitness." 

Dr. Ocampo clears his throat stickily. Far from the peak of physical fitness, _he_ looks like he's about two steps away from death's door. Pretty fucking rich of this old geezer to tell Lance he's _too skinny_ to be a pilot. 

"Thirteen pounds," Ocampo says, not looking at Lance, making another note on his tablet. "Better make it fourteen to be safe. Why don't you start working out with that friend of yours? Hulk? Honk? That young man seems to have a very good grasp of the kind of physical and mental dedication needed to become an active duty Galaxy Garrison officer. Start working out with him and I'm sure by the time I see you in six months you'll be as fit as a fiddle." 

*****

Hunk is at his desk working on a paper for his Advanced Biomechanical Engineering II class when Lance storms in. 

"Failed again, huh?" 

Lance huffs and throws himself down on his bed. He crosses his arms over his chest and glares up at nothing. 

"I'll take that as a yes then," Hunk says, turning back to his laptop. 

There's a moment of silence and then Lance says, "It's just not _fair_. I made it this far and they're going to keep me out of active duty because I'm a little bit skinnier than average? That's just ridiculous." 

It's a little bit of an understatement to say that Lance is a _little bit_ skinnier than average, Hunk thinks. He's just a few inches shorter than Hunk is, but he's all skin and bones. A string bean, Hunk’s mom would have said. He eats as much as anyone, Hunk guesses, but he's got the metabolism of a hummingbird. Nothing sticks. 

"Why don't you start coming to the gym with me?" he says mildly. 

"Ehh," Lance says. "Maybe." He has that tone in his voice that suggests that maybe is more like 'maybe in a million years'. 

Lance isn't real big on exercise, Hunk knows. 

Hunk shuts his laptop. "Well," he says. "Maybe you should just eat more. Some of the guys at the gym are really into lifting and they're always taking weight gain supplements and drinking protein shakes. Maybe you should look into that." 

"Hmmm," Lance says. He has a perplexed look on his face. "That stuff probably tastes terrible, but I guess I could put up with it for a little while, if it meant getting to actually fly next year." He sits up, grinning. "Plus, the ladies would be all over me if I bulked up a little bit. Not that they aren't now, but if I get built how are they going to be able to resist the Lance-ster?" 

He flexes. His arms are so skinny Hunk thinks he might be able to fit one hand around Lance's bicep.

"How indeed," he says. He stands up and stretches. "Speaking of getting built, I'm headed to the gym now. Why don't you come with me? You could talk to a trainer or something. I bet they have tons of good advice." 

"Nah," Lance says, waving a hand. "I think you might really on to something though, buddy. I just need to eat more, and I'll put on weight in no time. Why don't you pick me up some of that weight gain stuff? I'm gonna go to the grocery store. Operation Bulk Up is _on_.”

***** 

Lance opens the jar of weight gain powder and frowns. 

"Hunk, this stuff looks gross." 

Hunk, sitting at his desk with four or five books open and reams of paper covering every free surface, shrugs. "I never tried it," he says, distracted. 

Lance shakes his head. How's he supposed to pack on weight drinking _this_? It looks revolting. Fighting back a gag at the smell, he scoops a few tablespoons of it into a glass, and adds milk, like the instructions say to do. Well -- the instructions say skim milk, but Lance got whole milk. Skim milk is basically just gross white water, and he figures the extra calories aren't going to hurt. 

He stirs and stirs and the glass turns an unappetizing beige. He picks it up and salutes. 

"Bottoms up." He grimaces and takes a long drink. 

It's ... not very good. It's got a fake saccharine taste and a slightly chalky consistency that makes him think of medicine. He puts the glass down and tries to clear the taste from his mouth. 

"Ugh," he moans. "Hunk, this is _gross_. I can't drink this.” He sighs. “This is hopeless. I should just drop out and … and … maybe I’ll become a male model. At least then I’d be appreciated for my bod.” 

Hunk looks up, frowning. "Huh? Oh ... well, I think some of the guys mix it with stuff to make it more appetizing." 

"Mix it with stuff?" Lance asks, narrowing his eyes. 

"Yeah," Hunk says, waving a hand. "Like, add chocolate syrup, or mixes it into smoothies. That kind of thing. Gussie it up a bit." 

Hmmmm. Now that's an idea. “You might talk like my mom, Hunk, but maybe you’re onto something.” 

Lance opens the fridge at the foot of his bed. It's fully stocked with the bounty from his earlier grocery run. The cafeteria provides all their meals, of course, but as an upperclassman they're allowed a mini fridge per room and the opportunity to go off campus to stock it with whatever they want. Lance had gotten the good stuff -- ice cream, snack cakes, pop tarts, chips, and candy bars. He doesn't have a particular sweet tooth, but he figures if he's trying to gain weight this is what he should be eating. Junk food. All the stuff his mom didn’t let him have when he was a kid. 

He gets out a gallon of vanilla ice cream and the gallon of whole milk. He bought a blender last year when they tried to make frozen margaritas for a (sadly boring) dorm party. The blender hadn't been able to crush ice very well even after Pidge and Hunk supercharged it, but it makes easy work of a few big scoops of ice cream and the rest of the weight gain shake. Lance adds more powder and more milk until the entire canister is full and then blends away. In a few minutes he's got a thick creamy drink that looks a hell of a lot more appetizing than his first attempt. He refills his glass and takes a long drink. 

"Hey," he says. "This is pretty good." He takes another long sip. It’s really thick -- he can almost feel it hitting his stomach, but he supposes that's the point. "Hunk, you wanna try some?" 

"Mm," Hunk says. "Nah, I'm good. You go for it." He flips furiously through one of the gigantic books on his desk, and not for the first time Lance is really glad he enrolled in the pilot course rather than in engineering. He has no interest in memorizing all of the _whatever it is_ Hunk is always studying. Numbers and squiggly symbols that make Lance’s head spin. Give him a good flight simulation any day. 

Lance pushes the full bags from his grocery haul to the end of his bed and settles back against the pillow. He sets the pitcher of milkshake on his nightstand and grabs his glass. It's still two-thirds full, and he's probably got enough shake for another couple of glasses. He takes another long drink. Hunk was right. The ice cream is rich enough to disguise the chalky powdery taste of the weight gain powder. He wishes he had gotten some chocolate syrup or something to mix in. 

Next time. 

By the time he's down to the dregs of the first glass he's starting to feel full. His presses a hand to his belly. It's still firm and concave, but he feels like he's swallowed a brick or something. 

He pours another glass. It's harder to swallow now. He has to pause and take a few long, deep breaths between each sip. He leaves one hand on his stomach, pressing into the full, tense ache there. He's totally stuffed. He's got as healthy an appetite as any young man, but he can't remember ever _intentionally_ overeating like this. Even at holiday meals, he's not the kind to go back and fill his plate over and over again. He's not sure he's ever been this full, and it feels .. It kind of feels good, actually. It hurts, but not in a _bad_ way, exactly. The pain is sharp, but beneath that he feels heavy and grounded, rooted into his body and into the bed.

He pours the rest of the shake into his glass. He's so full he can't even think of drinking more, but at the same time, the thought of drinking more -- all of it, finishing every last drop -- is suddenly, inexplicably appealing. He lets the rest of the thick, rich stuff slide down his throat into his heavy, swollen belly. It’s cold and rich and when he finally -- _finally_ \-- is done, he moans. He feels like he’s eaten a fucking elephant, but it doesn’t feel bad. Mostly, he feels like he needs a nap.

He leans back against the headboard, panting as though he just finished running a race. Lance has worked his ass off to get this far. He's not going to let a few pounds stand in the way of him and an appointment as a Galaxy Garrison pilot. If stuffing himself silly with milkshakes is what it takes, he's up for the task. 

*****

Hunk frowns down at his plate. He's eating his standard breakfast of icky powdered eggs and fruit. It's not good, but it's food and it’ll do. 

Across the table, Lance is digging into his own breakfast. He'd heaped his plate high with gross eggs and French toast and bacon and sausage, and covered the whole thing with syrup and butter. It's been a week since he started in on this weight gain kick and apparently his eyes are still bigger than his stomach, because he's only halfway done with his food and he already seems to be flagging. 

Of course, he'd had one of those milkshakes of his before they even left the dorm this morning. Hunk would be pretty full if he drank a half gallon of that stuff, and he's always been able to eat a lot. Lance -- so thin he's almost dainty -- has to be absolutely full to bursting. 

Lance sighs and sits back, setting his fork down. "Bulking up is hard work," he mumbles. There's a little syrup on his chin. He wipes it away. 

He rests his hand on his stomach, and oh. There's maybe just the slightest hint of a convex curve there. 

Hunk feels his cheeks start to get hot. It's only been a week, and for the most part there's no visible indication of how much Lance has been eating, except for maybe a slightly glazed look in his eyes after he's really packed his belly full of food. But that curve suggests what, if Lance keeps this up, will be undeniable evidence of his overindulgence. Of course if he keeps eating like a total pig he’s going to get _fat_. 

The image of Lance all soft and rosy and full with his hands on his plush belly is strangely compelling. Hunk swallows. There's something seriously wrong with him. He ought to be encouraging Lance to start working out, not thinking about what he would look like if he turned into a fatty. Besides, it’s not like he’s going to gain more than a few pounds anyway -- he doesn’t need to put on much to make weight. Why would he keep this up after he meets his goal?

"I'm going to the gym later," Hunk says, shifting uncomfortably. "If you wanna come with me." 

Lance looks up. There are crumbs on his chin. 

"You've got --- ah ..." Hunk gestures at his own face. 

Lance wipes the crumbs away. "The gym?" He looks skeptical. 

"Yeah," Hunk says. He pushes his own plate away from him, breakfast unfinished. The day-glo yellow eggs are cold and utterly unappetizing. "You know. You're supposed to bulk and then cut. Work out and stuff. I think. That's what all the guys at the gym do." 

When he started going to the gym regularly Hunk had already had the bulk, so he'd just focused on the working out part, but he gathers that’s the general idea. 

Lance rolls his eyes. "No offense, buddy, but I don't want to become a gym rat like that asshole _Keith_. I'm just gonna put on a few pounds, make weight, and go back to normal." 

Inexplicably, Hunk is disappointed. That feeling is overwhelming and _really fucking weird_ so he pushes it away. "It's not like going for a run would hurt you," he says softly. 

Lance saves a hand dismissively. "I'm in _great_ shape," he says. "That's why it's so ridiculous I failed my physical. I mean, if you passed --" 

He looks up suddenly, as if even Lance realizes the tactlessness of what he's said. 

Hunk frowns. He's worked hard to get into the kind of shape required to become eligible for combat duty, and Lance knows it. But Hunk is a coward, so instead of calling Lance out, he pretends his friend's words haven’t hit him like a punch to the gut.

"Oh," he says, "Right. I mean, if I passed my physical I'm sure you'll have no problem. I'm a fatso, after all." 

Maybe half a second of doubt passes through Lance's eyes. "Right," he says, sounding unsure. 

Hunk stands up. He feels shaky and overwhelmed and a little out of control for several different reasons. He picks up his plate. 

Lance has already gone back to stuffing his face. 

"I'm gonna head out," Hunk says. "I need to stop at the library before class. If you want to meet up at the gym, I'll be there after first period." 

Lance, cheeks bulging, shakes his head. "Nah," he says. "I'm gonna need a nap after this." 

He pats his stomach again, and again Hunk imagines it much bigger and softer and flabbier. The image is so intense it cuts through his rage. 

"Okay," Lance says. "See you later, then." Mouth full, he waves. 

Hunk pauses for a moment outside of the cafeteria and takes a few deep, soothing breaths. He's all shaky and his skin is hot. 

He's never been as turned on by anything as he is by the idea of Lance seriously porking out. That image had been so clear and vivid and _hot_ that it had burned away all of his anger, just like that. All he can think about how is how much rounder Lance’s still-flat belly is going to look after he’s finished his breakfast, how after a few more weeks it’ll be round and plush all the time. 

Hunk’s always been a big guy himself. It’s just how he’s built. He got teased a little bit as a kid, but the occasional harsh words aside, he’s never really thought much of it. In the past six months since he’s started working out he’s shed a few pounds, but his motivation had been professional rather than aesthetic. He wants to be a good candidate for active duty when he graduates. He’s still a big guy, anyway, just slightly more muscle-y than pudge-y these days. 

In his whole long life of being a fat guy, Hunk’s never once been turned on by eating, or by gaining weight, or by his belly. But Lance -- well, the guy puts on a couple of pounds and suddenly Hunk is a fourteen year old kid again, ready to mortify himself at the slightest provocation.

“Come on, brain,” he mutters. “Get it together.” He’s weird enough without this new surprise twist. 

Besides, it’s not like Lance would ever be interested in him _that way_ , right? 

He exhales. Maybe a good run will jostle the loose connections in his brain back into place. 

*****

Hunk is honestly shocked with Lance strolls through the door of the gym a week later. He looks good, Hunk thinks, even though he can see that Lance's sweatpants are resting just beneath the curve of his belly. He's still full, probably -- he'd eaten four waffles and about a pound of bacon at breakfast. The tee shirt he's wearing isn't too tight, but it's just tight enough that it clings to that curve when Lance turns to wave to someone, grinning brightly. 

Hunk is a mile and a half into a three mile run and sweat is running down his neck and back and even down his forearms. That's so weird. Who has sweaty forearms? He's breathing hard but not too hard -- he's put in a lot of hours on the treadmill this term, and he's gotten a little bit better at this running thing. It's hard to pay attention to Lance while he's struggling not to trip and make an idiot of himself. He's not expecting it when Lance steps onto the treadmill next to him. 

"Hey buddy," he says, smiling. "Figured it was time I come pump some iron with you." 

"Cool," Hunk says. "Just getting in a run today." 

Lance nods. He stretches jauntily. His shirt rides up a little, revealing a few inches of pale stomach. Does it look softer than it used to, or is that all in Hunk’s head? Impossible to tell. "Sounds like a plan, man. I figure I'll get my run on for a little while and then go hit the free weights." 

Hunk has never seen Lance pick up a free weight in his life, but hey, maybe he's about to turn over a new leaf. The evidence of his bulk up is increasingly visible around his waist. Maybe he’s decided it’s time to start getting into shape.

Lance presses the quick start button on his machine and starts off at an easy walk. He puts in his earbuds and fiddles with his phone. He adjusts the blue sweatband holding his hair off his face. He increases the speed, marginally. Hunk is a little more than two thirds through his run and he's feeling pretty winded. He closes his eyes and grits his teeth. His wonky left knee hurts and his feet are cramping a little bit. He knows three miles isn't some amazing distance, but it's a lot for him.

The last half mile is a slog. He wipes the sweat from his forehead and neck and closes his eyes for a moment and pushes through the ache. It's weird how it can feel so bad and so good at the same time. There's a little burst of satisfaction he can't suppress as the distance tracker spins over to 3.01 miles. He lowers the speed back down to a walking pace and grabs his water and takes a long drink, breathing in long, slow, deep breaths. 

On the machine beside him, Lance, red-faced, is wiping his brow. He takes out his earbuds and grins at Hunk, that huge, toothy smile that's always made Hunk's heart do a little flip-flop. 

"Nice run, big guy!" he says. He's all rosy and glowing now, but Hunk doesn't think he's actually ever made the switch from walking to actual running. 

Hunk cools down for a few minutes and then ends his session. Lance seems to take that as his cue to be done too. 

He steps off his treadmill and stretches, and again Hunk can see that pale swath of belly. Lance can’t have gained more than ten pounds, but on someone so thin to start with that’s a lot. He's never cared enough to get ripped, but he's always been thin enough that you could see some definition in his stomach, in his arms. That's disappearing now, underneath a soft layer of new flesh. 

Not that Hunk has been looking. 

"What a workout," Lance says. He tugs his shirt down without thinking. "That felt great. I see why you're always hitting the gym. What a rush!" 

"Um," Hunk says. "Yeah." He wipes his face with his towel. "I'm gonna go do some arm work." 

Lance glances down for a moment. "Riiiight," he says. "I think I'm actually gonna grab one of those smoothies, bud." He folds his arms behind his head, and there's that tempting peak of tummy again. "Gotta keep the ol' strength up." 

"Uh," Hunk says. He's on the verge of telling Lance that he's pretty sure you're not supposed to drink like, three of those shakes a day, but then he thinks of how round and heavy Lance's gut is going to look after he's sucked down a large chocolate protein shake, how all those calories are going to make his stomach even softer, so that there's always a nice round belly peeking out from under the too-short hems of his shirts. 

“Right,” Hunk says, feeling his cheeks flush. “Gotta keep up your strength.” 

He flees to the back of the gym to the free weights and assiduously avoids watching Lance in the mirror. He doesn’t see Lance order an extra large chocolate peanut butter protein shake. He doesn’t watch Lance suck down the first thick gulp, his eyes fluttering shut. He definitely isn’t paying any attention at all when Lance tips the cup up to drink down the last sip of smoothie, eyes still closed and one hand resting on his bulging stomach. 

Hunk isn’t paying any attention at all. None. 

Shit. 

***** 

Lance is surprised to find the room empty when he gets back from his last class. It's a Thursday, and Hunk doesn't have any late classes on Thursdays. 

"Probably at the gym again," he mutters to himself. "That guy needs to learn how to relax." 

Lance is an expert relax-er, and he's about to put his skills to good use. He drops his bag on his bed and toes off his shoes. He pulls off his shirt and, with a sigh of relief, unbuttons his pants. 

He hasn't weighed himself since his last, ill-fated physical, but he can tell this weight gain powder stuff Hunk turned him on to is doing something, because there's a red, sore ring around his waist where his too-tight pants bite into his skin. He still looks skinny, but he's gonna need new pants before too long if he keeps this up. 

And the weird thing is, making weight aside, Lance wants to keep it up. He _likes_ eating. That's a weird thing to realize at nineteen years old but he's _hungry all the time_ now, and he finds himself daydreaming in class about what kind of pie the cafeteria might serve with dinner. 

He's really hungry tonight. Thursday is his busy day. He has class all day long, from first period until last. He barely had time to stop in the cafeteria and scarf down a few sandwiches for lunch. Instead of heading back there for dinner, he'd ordered takeout from the Mexican place in town - a prerogative of being an upperclassman that Lance has been taking full advantage of these last few weeks.

He's got a whole bag of food now -- two king burrito specials with extra sour cream and double order of carnitas tacos and nachos with cheese dip. It had almost seemed like too much when the driver had handed him the plastic bag full of to-go containers. He'd almost mumbled an excuse about ordering for all his friends -- but then he didn't, because what the hell. He's doing this so he can become a combat pilot. Why should he make excuses? 

The delicious food smells had made his mouth water the whole time he walked back to his room. He hadn't even thought about seeing if Hunk wanted anything, and he's honestly relieved that Hunk is out. He doesn’t want to have to share. Lance wants to eat all of this, all by himself. Every last bite.

He pull on a pair of sweatpants and a tee shirt and shoves his school bag to the foot of his bed. He spreads his to-go containers out around him. Lance likes to have a little variety. He doesn't just want to dig into one thing and finish it -- that's what had made the shakes so hard for him to handle at first. 

He grabs his tablet from his bedside table and queues up a few episodes of the show he's watching and starts to eat. 

Lance isn't some kind of gourmand like Hunk is. He’s a simple guy with simple tastes, and he knows that this burrito -- full of cheese and refried beans and big juicy hunks of chicken and pork, all smothered in a delicious chipotle cream sauce -- tastes fucking awesome. He eats forkful after loaded forkful, spilling rice down his front, wiping off the stray cream sauce that falls on his shirt. The show he's watching is one Pidge turned him onto, and it's pretty hilarious. He's engaged, laughing along, stuffing his face on autopilot, so that it's a shock when his fork scrapes Styrofoam. 

He's done with this first burrito already? 

Wow. He hadn't realized he was _that_ hungry. He throws the container on the floor and rubs his belly a little bit. It's full -- it's definitely full -- but it's not too full. He's still got plenty of room for more. He's barely getting started. He wants to keep going until he starts to feel that heavy, sated delicious feeling of being _too_ full. That's what he really likes, more than the food. He likes the weird pins and needles ache in his stomach and the feeling of being pinned down, held in place. So full he can't move a muscle. 

He stuffs a handful of nachos in his mouth, and takes a bite of taco dipped in sour cream. He slurps a long sip of soda to clear his palette, and then starts in on the second burrito, alternating big bites with piles of cheesy nachos. Some melted cheese drips down his wrist. He licks it off. 

Halfway through the second burrito Lance is starting to feel pretty full. He pats his stomach gingerly. "Hang in there, buddy," he says. "We're almost done." 

It's not visible through his tee shirt but he can feel the big, pronounced curve of it, packed full of food. It's a shocking, thrilling sensation. He scoots forward to sit up a little and pulls off his shirt. Without the loose shirt to obscure it, he definitely looks full. He pats his stomach again, relishing the way even the slightest brush seems to send sparks shooting through his skin. He pinches that slight layer of softness that's growing under his skin. Even totally stuffed like he is now, there's enough that he can squeeze it between two fingers. He's packed on enough pudge to obscure the flat, faint lines of his abs. 

For some reason, that just makes him want to eat more. 

In three big bites he puts way the rest of the second burrito. There's some rice and beans and cheese left in the container. He scoops it up with his fingers and into his mouth. He's making a _pig_ of himself but Lance doesn't particularly care right now. It just feels so good. There are a few nachos left. He makes short work of those. He's got just the one taco left. He eats it slowly, dipping it in the remaining cup of sour cream, making sure to get every last bit. Finally all that’s left is some cheese sauce, rapidly cooling. He hesitates -- but what the hell? He brings the styrofoam container to his lips and drinks it down. A dribble runs down his chin. It’s salty and kind of gross and makes him feel like he’s going to barf, but finally the container is empty. 

He’s eaten it all -- enough food to feed _four people_. He leans back against his headboard and takes a few deep breaths. 

"Oh," he says, both hands on his belly. "Full. Too full." He closes his eyes and tries to breath through the heavy, glutted feeling, like he's eaten a bowling ball or two. 

The room is a mess. The detritus of his meal litters his bed and the floor. His face and chest and hands are greasy and food smeared. There's some cheese sauce on his pants. He needs a shower. He needs a _nap_. 

But before any of that, he needs dessert. 

He can't end a good meal without something sweet, right? 

He's got a few pints of ice cream in the minifridge. He just needs to get up and get them. He sits up, but his stomach rumbles angrily. Oh man. He pats it. 

"Easy there, buddy," he says, one hand resting on the crest of his belly. 

God, he looks huge. He really looks like he's swallowed a bowling ball. 

Lance gets to his feet and his stomach lurches. What is he thinking? How can he possibly eat anything else, let alone ice cream? Rich, creamy ice cream, sliding easily down, spoonful after spoonful. He's pretty sure he has a pint of double fudge brownie in there still. That sweet, rich flavor is his _favorite_. 

He pats his belly again. It’s not going to be easy, but he’ll manage. He's doing this for his career, after all. 

*****

It's quarter to ten by the time Hunk gets back to the dorm. He opens the door to the room he shares with Lance and freezes. For a wild moment, he wonders if he's come to the wrong room. But no, it can't be that. His key worked. This is his room. That's _his roommate_ lying on his bed, passed out with melted ice cream running down his chin, so full his stomach is as big and pale and round as a full moon

It's all a little too much to take in, and part of him is tempted to just close the door and go back to the cafeteria and get a cup of coffee or something. Maybe when he comes back to his dorm again, this hallucination will have dispelled and he'll find Lance sitting in bed reading or watching a show or something, like he normally would. 

At just that moment Lance groans and runs one hand along the fat, swollen curve of his stomach. He rests it right at the biggest, most swollen part. His eyelids flutter, and he groans, just faintly. 

That noise runs right down Hunk's spine, and he's suddenly all hot and bothered, willing himself to stay calm and not do anything mortifying. 

Without thinking he starts picking up the garbage on the floor and stuffing into the plastic bag at the foot of Lance's bed. The tin foil and styrofoam rustle noisily. He's worried Lance will wake. As he cleans up, he realizes just how much Lance must have eaten to put himself into such a food coma. There's four to-go containers and a pint of ice cream, all totally empty. 

That's ridiculous. Impossible. Disgusting. _Hot._

Hunk shifts, adjusting himself in his pants. 

"Oh, come on," he mutters. What's wrong with him, honestly? He gets a semi because his dumb lump of a roommate ate enough Mexican food for a family of four? 

Apparently yes. 

Lance moans again, and rubs his hand in small, gentle circles over his belly. 

It's too hot in here. Stale and hot and just too much. Hunk opens a window. The desert nights are cool, and the fresh air helps. He just needs a moment. He just ... 

He takes the bag of garbage down to the big trash can at the end of the hall. It's late, and he has an early class and he really needs to shower and get to bed. He just doesn't know if he can go in there and face Lance. Face Lance's _belly_ , looking all swollen and full and fat as a tick. 

There is something seriously wrong with him. He leans against the wall and takes a few deep breaths. So what if he's a weird creepy creep? He's good. He can do this. 

Okay. He can do this. 

When he gets back to the room, Lance is sitting up, awake but still groggy. His tee shirt has ridden up a little around his belly, displaying a pale crescent of flesh. 

"Hey buddy," he says, when Hunk comes in. "Where were you tonight?" 

"Uh," Hunk says. "At the gym. And then Shiro wanted to show me this new kettlebell routine he's doing, so I hung out for a while. And then it was late and he said he was headed to the cafeteria for dinner and asked me if I wanted to go so I just said yes." 

He's talking too much and can't even help it. He feels all trembly and weird and he's glad that only the desk light is on, because he's definitely hard now. 

Lance blinks slowly, like a lizard. "Sounds like a lot of work," he says, and then he yawns. 

"Uh," Hunk says. His cheeks must be bright red. "How was your evening?" 

"Oh," Lance says. "Good." He slaps his belly. The sound is strangely percussive. "Working on making weight." 

The noise goes right to Hunk's dick. "Right," Hunk says, voice choked. He turns his back to Lance, and digs in his dresser for a change of clothing. He needs to get out of here. He needs to go take a long, cold shower and forget this ever happened. He needs ... 

"Going to shower?" Lance asks. 

Hunk nods, biting his lower lip. He's holding his clothes in front of his groin. It's not too subtle, but Lance isn't really paying attention. 

"Before you go, will you help a guy out and get me the other pint of ice cream out of the fridge?" Lance's fingers are tracing circles on his stomach. 

Hunk swallows. He gets the pint of ice cream and drops it onto the bed next to Lance. 

"Thanks, Hunk. You're a pal," Lance says. He's really not paying attention though, already ripping off the plastic seal and opening the lid. He's got a spoon in the ice cream before Hunk is even out of the door. 

Hunk take a few steps down the hall and then leans back, squeezing his eyes shut. This is not good. Not good at all. There’s something wrong with him. He feels like he’s a kid again, all tense and hot and not understanding at all what’s happening to his body. He feels like he might come in his pants. 

He takes one more deep breath and then heads to the bathroom. Maybe a long, cold shower will help. He needs to get a grip. 

***** 

It's halfway through the fall term, and the teachers are starting to bury them in homework. That's why, Lance thinks, he's seen so little of Hunk these last few weeks. Time was they spent most nights together, laughing and eating snacks and watching stupid videos on YouTube. This year, though, between Hunk's big 'getting into shape' kick and the amount of time he's spending in the library, Lance only sees the big guy in passing: in the mornings when Hunk is getting ready, or sometimes at lunch when their schedules coincide, and at night when Hunk comes in as Lance is getting ready for bed. 

It's not right. Hunk and Lance are BFFs. Best bros. Life long compadres. Hunk is his trusty wingman, and without him around, Lance is honestly feeling a little bit ... lonely. 

Lonely? Yeah. That's it. It's kind of a new thing for him, honestly, because he never really had a chance to be lonely growing up. He's got a big family. There was always someone around to talk to, always too many people in fact. He'd needed to have a loud voice and a big ego to even get noticed. Things could have changed when he got admitted to the Galaxy Garrison, but he'd made Hunk apply too and they'd both gotten admitted. They'd become fast friends with Pidge, and the three of them made up a great little team. Lance was the handsome, dashing pilot, and they were his sidekicks. It was perfect. 

But now Pidge is busy all the time with the advanced doctoral level classes she's taking and Hunk is off studying like a good little engineer, and Lance is ... alone. 

He doesn't like it. 

He's got plenty of school work of his own, of course, but the curriculum for a pilot is different than the curriculum for an engineer or techie. Fewer term papers, way more hours in the simulator. Lance puts in his hours, and even does some extra. He's never had any problem getting his work done. After he finishes his homework, in the long evenings when he used to hang around with Hunk and Pidge, it seems like there's really not all that much for him to do.

Except eat, that is. 

It's been more than a month since he got serious about bulking up, and the results have been better than he expected. He hasn't weighed himself, but he knows he's got to be close to making weight. 

He hasn't weighed himself but he doesn't need to, because he can tell how _fat_ he's getting without the help of any scale. His stomach -- always flat and firm and smooth -- has pudged out enough that he can grab a little handful of soft, jiggly belly. His chest looks softer too, and his cheeks a shade rounder. His arms look flabby, and a surprising amount of the weight he's put on has accumulated on his thighs. They look thick and pale and spread out way more than he remembers when he sits in his desk chair. 

With his clothes on, he still looks pretty much like the same skinny guy he's always been, but when he’s getting changed Lance can tell he’s getting fat. The strange thing is, he doesn't mind. 

He knows this is weird, but hey, people are into all kinds of kinky sex stuff, right? It's not any weirder than liking shoes or latex or human furniture, right? Maybe getting off on stuffing yourself silly isn't the kind of kink you hear about every day, but who is Lance to judge? 

So, yeah. So maybe Lance went down to the cafeteria tonight after his last class, and stuffed his face with three cheeseburgers and two orders of cheese fries and four or five big glasses of soda. Cookies. A bag of chips. Two slices of pizza. He didn't exactly keep track, but it had been a lot of food. He'd felt his stomach get fuller and fuller, stretching to accommodate everything he packed in there. He'd waddled back to his room feeling swollen and massive, hands resting on his belly. 

He's in his pajamas now. The pants are too small to fit around his bloated gut, so he's pushed the waistband down. One hand is resting on his stomach, rubbing gentle circles. With the other hand he makes short work of a package of Oreos.

He's not hungry, is the thing. He hasn't been hungry in _days_. How could he, eating as much as he has been? He's just come to crave the heavy, almost narcotic ache of being massively, hugely past full. He feels it now, and every extra bite he chokes down just makes the feeling more intense, more painful, more pleasurable. 

When his questing hand finds no more Oreos -- he's eaten the _entire_ package -- Lance pauses. He tries to take a deep breath, but he's so full it just hurts worst. 

"Oh god," he moans, one hand on his belly, rubbing gently. 

This is crazy, he realizes in some dim part of his mind. He's been eating like a pig for a month now and he's packed on enough weight that there’s no question he’ll be at a ‘healthy’ weight at his next physical. There's no reason for him to keep doing this. He's eaten an embarrassing amount of food tonight. It's absolutely crazy for him to want to eat more. 

But he does. He rolls onto his side -- he feels as heavy and ponderous as a beached whale -- and reaches down for the grocery bag on the floor. He snags the first thing he can reach -- a jar of Nutella. He unscrews the lid and rests the jar on his stomach and reaches for a spoon on his bedside table. The first sweet spoonful sends a shock through him. It's so good -- rich and heavy and smooth. He could eat the whole jar. 

He's not going to. Lance isn't going to eat an entire jar of Nutella in one sitting. That would be obscene. 

It should feel obscene, but instead it feels like a challenge. 

He's so full that each spoonful feels like a fifty pound weight as he swallows. He looks enormous. His swollen gut has never looked this big. He rubs it softly with his free hand. There's something really nice about the feeling of soft flesh over his packed tight tummy. He can still pinch and tease the pudge that’s accumulated below his belly button even while his upper stomach is as hard and full as a rock.

He's maybe three quarters of the way done with the jar and it's getting difficult to keep going. He's sweating, and there's Nutella smeared around his mouth. He can barely lift the spoon to his mouth. 

He doesn't want to give up, but he can't possibly eat another bite. If he tries he think he'll barf. He puts the jar of Nutella on his bedside table and rubs his stomach. The slightest jostle sends little jolts through his overstretched skin. He's never in his life been this full. He doesn't think _anyone_ has ever been this full. He burps, and the release of pressure feels good, but he's still so round and swollen he thinks he might burst. 

He knows he ought to get up and wipe his face. He ought to clean up. What is Hunk going to think when he gets back and finds Lance like this? 

Hunk is going to think Lance is a big, fat pig. 

That thought is too much for him. He can barely reach his dick, as swollen and huge as his belly is, but he gets one hand on himself and jerks off, frantic and raw. His belly rolls and jostles, and he feels disgusting and fat and massive, but somehow, in some perverse way the pain just makes it better. 

He comes all over his hand and the curve of his lower belly. Exhausted, totally spent, disgusting, he closes his eyes. He'll get up and clean himself up. He just needs a minute. He just ....

*****

"Soooo," Hunk says, sitting down across from Pidge at one of the cafeteria tables.

She looks up from the book she's reading. "So." 

Hunk clears his throat. He cuts his turkey sandwich in half, and takes the lid off the fruit cup. Washed out grapefruit and pallid pineapple swim in a syrupy pool. Damn cafeteria food is an insult. 

"So," he says. "Have you noticed anything _different_ about Lance lately?" 

Pidge narrows her eyes. 

"Different?" she asks. "You mean other than the fact that he's been eating like a total pig and put on twenty-five pounds?" 

Hunk feels his cheeks go red. "That much, you think?" 

Pidge narrows her eyes further. "My model anticipates that based on his previously recorded bio-measurements, the approximate number of calories he's been eating, and his current metabolic expenditure each day, Lance has gained somewhere in the neighborhood of twenty-five pounds, yes." 

"Oh," Hunk says, choked. 

"What do you know about this?" She asks, steepling her fingers, regarding him with a curious but clinical stare. 

"He didn't make weight," Hunk says, quickly. "At his last physical. He was underweight, so I got him a can of that weight gainer stuff that some of the guys at the gym use. He ... Uh. I guess he's in the bulking phase." 

Pidge snorts. "Please," she says. "Like Lance is ever going to go to the gym." 

They both know he won't. Lance isn’t lazy, exactly. He just … doesn’t like to move. 

Hunk sighs. "It's not like I really care what Lance does. I mean. I care. He's my best friend. But it's not like it's any of my business, really. I just want him to be happy. He seems happy. I just ..." He waves his hands ineffectually. 

Pidge shuts her book and stares at Hunk for a moment. "You realize you've been in love with him since the day I met you, right?" 

Hunk feels his cheeks turn red. He stutters something incomprehensible and then hangs his head in defeat. 

"Yeah," he says sadly. 

Pidge nods sagely. "I figured as much. And ... what? You find him more physically appealing now that he's gained some weight? I don't know why else it would bother you so much. I haven’t seen you this worked up since they decided to replace the milk at the coffee station with instant creamer." 

Hunk wishes he could disappear into the floor. He hangs his head. “That creamer stuff is an offense to man and gods,” he says weakly, but his heart isn’t in it. He doesn’t even have the spirit to rail against culinary degradation. 

Pidge nods again. "Despite an absence of personal interest, I've read quite a few books about human sexuality, and paraphilia -- including a preference for partners of above average weight -- are surprisingly common." 

"Hey," Hunk whispers. "Keep it down. I don't have a preference for ... that. I just ..." 

"What then?" Pidge asks skeptically. 

"I just ... just." Hunk swallows. "Um. I mean, I like it when a guy has a good appetite, I guess. I have to question some of his food choices but I can't question when a guy has a good appetite. He likes to eat, and I understand that. He’s a late bloomer when it comes to the pleasures of the plate. I just ... Um. I'm just going to stop talking now." 

"It's nothing to be embarrassed about," Pidge says calmly. "You and he just need to have a conversation about it." 

"Talk to him?" Hunk can feel his eyes bulge out of his head. "About ..." 

Pidge waves her hand. "About ... whatever." 

Hunk can feel himself sweating. "How would I even go about that? I mean, I can't just bring it up with him. He's going to think I'm a big weird creepy creep." 

Pidge shrugs. "So? Maybe he is too. This is Lance we’re talking about. He makes creepy into an artform. Bring him a box of donuts and tell him how you feel." 

"You make it sound so easy," Hunk grumbles. 

"It is," Pidge says. "Theoretically, at least. Fortunately my interest in such things is entirely theoretical." She grins. "Good luck, brother." She gets up with her tray, leaving Hunk to stew in his own misery. 

Lance does like donuts but … Just talk to him? It can’t be that easy, can it? Right? 

***** 

Lance sucks his belly in and buttons up his shirt. Slowly, he exhales. The fabric strains as his belly relaxes. The buttons hold, though. 

"See," he says to his reflection. "Still fits." 

He grins at himself. Sure, maybe his jawline isn't quite as sharp as it once had been but there's a bloom in his cheeks these days that definitely wasn't there before. He looks good, he thinks. So what if he's put on a couple of pounds? He likes the way he looks now, with his stomach rounding out softly and his chest a little more plush. His limbs aren't stick thin anymore, and he's definitely got a little more junk in the trunk. 

He's not fat though. Not really. Not yet. He's just a little chubby. He rests his hand on his belly, jiggles it a little. He can feel all his soft, new flesh wobble. He tries to ignore how good it feels. 

Just then the door opens. Lance jumps back. Hunk is standing in the doorway, a bag in his hand. 

"Hey buddy," Lance says. "Long time no see. I feel like we're two ships passing in the night lately." 

"Um," Hunk says. He seems jumpy. Poor guy has been working too much. "Hey." He lingers in the doorway, awkward, and then holds out a box. "Um. Here. I got you some donuts. I mean, I was at the commissary earlier and I guess they were having some kind of sale, because these were on sale, and I thought you might enjoy them. I mean, I would too. You don't have to eat them all or anything. Unless you want to." 

Lance frowns. "You brought me donuts?" 

Hunk nods, red-faced. 

Lance grins. "Thanks, man." He opens the box and selects a Boston creme. He takes a big bite. It's good -- the cream is the rich, real stuff. He eats it in three bites, and then licks the chocolate off of his fingers. 

Hunk is looking at him with eyes as big as dinner saucers. 

Now that Lance thinks about it, he has been pretty jumpy lately. He hadn't made the connection, butttt ... 

"Want one?" He holds the box open to Hunk. 

In a faint voice, Hunk says, "Nah. I'm good." 

Lance shrugs. "Suit yourself." 

He sits down on his bed. Sitting, his belly pushes forward even more. Those buttons pull, but nothing rips. When he looks down, his belly is a big bulge resting in his lap. Little ovals of pale soft skin are visible between the gaping buttons. He grabs another donut -- chocolate with sprinkles -- and takes a bite. 

Mouth full, he says, "These are pretty good, Hunk. Thanks." 

Hunk swallows. He is sitting on his own bed, very upright, knees together and fingers intertwined. 

"Cool," he says. "Good." His voice is kind of tight and weird.

Lance closes his eyes to savor the smooth chocolate taste. He'd been planning to go down to the cafeteria for breakfast but -- well, hell, who is he kidding? He'll eat these and go anyway. 

"So what's up, man? I've barely seen you lately. You burning the midnight oil in the library?" 

Hunk nods. "Uh. Yeah. You know. I have this huge end of semester paper due for Extraterrestrial Vacuum Systems. Nikofski teaches that and you know what a stickler she is. I think I'm going to do something on the risks of using conduction compression systems in zero-G, but I'm worried that she'll think it's too derivative." 

"Right," Lance says, mouth-full. He has no idea what Hunk is talking about, but they've known each other long enough that he knows Hunk needs to blow some steam off some time. It's nice, anyway, to sit here with him and listen to his deep, rumbly voice. These are good donuts, too. Lance selects another -- his fourth -- and takes a bite. Jelly. Mmm. He licks the powdered sugar from his lips. Hunk is going into tedious detail about some aspect of ship technology that Lance really doesn't care about, but he's finally relaxing, gesturing excitedly about pressurized gaskets. His face lights up when he’s talking about something he cares about, and it’s awesome to see. 

Lance shifts. He's getting a little full. He pats his stomach softly. It's so _weird_ even having a belly. He still thinks of himself as that stick thin kid, but then he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror and sees his round cheeks, or looks down and sees his big round belly starting to obscure his feet. It's not like he's that huge but he's put the weight on fast. He's probably carrying twenty pounds of extra flab in his gut now, soft and jiggly and huge. 

Hunk has gone quiet. 

Lance looks up and realizes that he's basically kneading his fat belly. Caught in the act. 

His eyes meet Hunk's. Something strange and sharp and electric passes between them. He grins.

In a husky voice, Hunk asks, "Are you going to finish them?" 

Lance looks down. There are only two donuts left in the box. He can feel his cheeks heating up. How the heck did he eat them so quickly? It's weird, because this is _Hunk_. His best friend. But he doesn't think he's wrong about this. 

"I think I can," Lance says. He groans dramatically. "I'm getting pretty full though."

A lie. 

"A belly rub would really help." 

Hunk's eyes, already wide, become approximately as big as dinner plates. 

He gets up quickly and kind of half crouches beside Lance's bed. It doesn't look comfortable at all. Lance rolls his eyes. 

"Come up here," he says, patting the bed beside him. He scoots over to make room. It's harder to scoot than it used to be. Hunk sits down beside him, but he's holding himself stiffly apart. His mouth is turned down in a little frown and the knuckles of his clenched hands are white. 

Lance feels something turn over in his stomach that has nothing to do with the ten donuts he’s just eaten.

"I'm not making an idiot out of myself here, right?" he asks. "I mean, I never thought ... you never seemed interested before so what are the odds you're interested now that I'm turning into a porker?" He's half talking to himself, one hand still on his belly. "But if you bought me those donuts, I figured you wanted to see me eat them. Right?" 

It comes out as a plaintive entreaty, and not the confident declaration that Lance had hoped for. 

If he's wrong, things are going to be really weird. Really, really weird. 

But ... 

Hunk shakes his head quickly yes. "Yeah," he says. "Definitely interested. Interested then. Very interested now." 

He puts one of his hands on Lance's belly, atop Lance's hand. His palm is warm, and his hand looks big there, even against the substantial curve of Lance's tummy. 

Lance breathes out, pushing his stomach further into Hunk's big hand. "Good," he says, and he reaches for another donut.

Their first kiss is slow and sweet and tastes faintly of chocolate. 

***** 

Lance frowns and stares at his flight suit. It's the same one he's worn for years. Grey, size medium. Standard issue. Pretty much as nondescript as these things get. 

Looking at it now, though, he realizes with a sudden, secret thrill that it's going to be _really_ tight -- if he can get it zipped up at all. 

He steps into it. Still loose around his legs -- even his thighs, which are newly plush. It's not until he gets to the inches of soft flab that have accumulated around his middle that he has a real problem. The locker room is empty. Biting his lip, Lance turns to stare at himself in the mirror. 

He knows what he's going to see and yet somehow it's still a shock. The person reflected back at him looks _chubby_. He's got round cheeks and the slightest hint of a double chin. His thighs are thick. His bare upper arms are soft and shapeless. And then there's his _belly_. It's big and round and looks so soft, hanging over the waistband of his boxers slightly. Lance digs his fingers into that wobbly flesh and jiggles it. 

A sharp thrill of pleasure runs up his spine.

Now is _really_ not the time. 

He sucks in and pulls the zipper up. It still tugs tight over his middle. When he breathes out his gut strains against the fabric. It looks like he's smuggling something under his jumpsuit, or it would if the rest of him wasn't also bearing witness to all of these new pounds. 

Lance grins at himself in the mirror. He feels good, even better now that he knows that Hunk likes this as much as he likes it himself, but it's hard to ignore the little niggling fear that he's _let himself go_. 

Fear and pleasure, coupled together. 

Seriously, what is going on in his head? 

He doesn't understand it, and he's not sure he wants to. 

Belly proudly visible beneath the tight grey jumpsuit, he makes his way to the simulation chamber to get his mission briefing. 

The lights have already been dimmed and the other pilot candidates from Lance's class are already there. He sneaks in and finds a place at the back of the crowd. With his height at least he doesn't have to worry about about not being able to see. He listens intently as the instructor describes today's scenario: piloting a transport ship with a damaged engine through an asteroid field to a base where it is to be repaired. It's challenging, but nothing Lance can't handle. He's not the best pilot, but he loves flying and he's worked hard to become one of the top two or three in their class. He's flown simulations similar to this before, and it's challenging, but he's up for a good challenge. The lights come back on. The first set of pilots enter their simulators. He folds his arms over his chest and thinks about how he can offset the drag created by the damaged engine when someone pokes him in the belly. 

"Getting pretty chunky there, aren't you?" 

It's unexpected and shocking and thrilling and _erotic_. Lance looks up. 

It's Keith, smirking like the smug unbearable asshole he is. 

Lance sniffs. "I'm bulking," he says, even though even he doesn't believe that lie any longer. 

"No kidding," Keith says, sounding as unbearable as ever. "You're turning into a fatso." 

Lance looks down, quick. His belly bulges out hugely, obscuring the view of his feet. Keith sees him looking and smirks again. 

"Bulking. Right." He slaps Lance on his shoulder. Lance can feel the pudge on his belly and his ass and all the other soft new places on his body jiggle. 

It's his turn to go into the sim. He takes a deep, deep breath and walks into his little chamber. The door slides shut behind him. He settles himself into the chair. It's not as roomy as he remembers. His thick thighs touch. His belly bulges forward towards his lap, engulfing. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. 

He's tingly and turned on and eager all over. Something about Keith's words -- chunky, fatso -- and his scorn are so unbearably hot that Lance can't stand it. He wishes he were in his room. He wishes he had something to eat. He wishes Keith would tease him a little more, so he could feel that delicious terrible awful feeling of shame and pleasure crawl up his spine one more time. 

He's fat and getting fatter, and everyone can tell. 

He wonders, idly, as the simulation appears on screen, how Hunk feels about teasing. 

*****

"You want me to ... what?" 

Lance's cheeks are red, which is kind of surprising, because he can talk shamelessly about how he wants Hunk to feed him fried chicken and mashed potatoes until he is about to burst while he jerks himself off without even blinking. Now, though, he is blushing and not meeting Hunk's gaze. 

"You know," Lance says. "Tease me a little. Call me names. Pinch my belly. Um." 

Hunk feels his own cheeks go hot. _He_ remembers well enough being called names because he was bigger than the other kids in his grade. He never let it bother him too much, but it still hadn't been his favorite thing in the world. And Lance wants this? 

"You want me to make fun of you for getting fat?" Hunk frowns. "I don't get it." 

Lance frowns too. "I'm not an expert at this stuff, man," he says. "In class earlier that asshole Keith said something about all this --" Here he shakes his belly. Hunk _can't believe_ how much of it there is these days, how much soft flab Lance can squeeze between his fingers, how much he had to eat to pack on all that weight. "-- and I kinda. You know. Liked it." 

Hunk tries to imagine. "You were wearing your old jumpsuit?" 

Lance nods. His hands are still on his belly. 

"I'm surprised you can still fit in it," Hunk says, and he means that. He doesn't know what Lance weighs right now but he has to have gained thirty or forty pounds, most of it in his gut. That's _a lot_ of weight on someone with such a slim frame. 

"Barely could. I had to suck my belly in and it still just barely did up. I'm surprised it didn't rip." 

His eyes light up, like he can't wait for the day when it does rip. 

"Dude, Lance," Hunk says. "You almost ripped your jumpsuit?" 

Lance nods. He reaches for a handful of chips and stuffs them in his mouth. There are crumbs on his cheeks. "Can you imagine?" His eyes are bright. "If I'd ripped my jumpsuit Keith would never let me hear the end of it." 

Hunk shifts on the bed. There's something about the bright-eyed flush expression on Lance's face that he really likes, even though he doesn't understand it. 

"Probably would have called me a big fat pig," Lance says, half to himself. "Everyone would have. Maybe even the instructor." 

"Hey," Hunk says. "Lance." He snaps his finger in front of Lance's face. "If we're gonna do this ... we need to like, I don't know. What if you start to feel uncomfortable? What if I say something that really hurts you? What if you change your mind and I end up causing you irreparable psychological damage? What if .." 

"Okay," Lance says. "Calm down, man. Fine. I'll pick a safe word or whatever. Uh. How about 'groundhog'?" 

"Groundhog?" Hunk frowns. "Where'd you get that from?" 

"I don't know," Lance says. He grabs another handful of chips and stuffs them in his mouth. "It just popped into my head." 

"Right," Hunk says. His hands are on his knees. He doesn't know how to start this. Lance just wants him to tease him? Is he supposed to do it now? How is he supposed to know when Lance wants to be teased and when he doesn't want to be teased? "Um. Is this like? Do you want me to like ..." 

"Just go for it," Lance says. "I'll tell you if you're doing a bad job." 

Hunk swallows. "Gee," he says. "You sure have gotten fat." 

Lance fixes him with a flat look. 

Apparently, he can do better. 

Hunk tries to remember some of the things the kids used to call him back in elementary school. Those are old memories now, and faded. Almost like things that happened to someone else. He's still a big guy and he always will be, but now he feels comfortable and strong in his body. Nobody here would dare make fun of him. Those old memories don't sting too badly any more, but they do give him some ideas. 

He clears his throat and tries again. 

"Are you really going to eat that entire bag of chips?" 

Lance shrugs. "Yup," he says. 

"What a pig," Hunk says, letting a little scorn creep into his voice. "You ate three burgers for lunch too, didn't you?" 

Lance nods. He's smiling, but it's a weird secret smile that Hunk has never seen on his face before. His cheeks are getting red. 

“Do you really need an entire family size bag of chips after three burgers?” Hunk makes a disgusted noise. “Of course you don’t need it, but you _want_ it, don’t you?” 

Lance nods, eagerly. "Tastes good," he says. He reaches his hand deep into the bag of chips and brings a greasy handful to his mouth. The crumbs fall on his soft chest. Leaning back against his pillows the way he is now, his chin is just slightly double. 

"Disgusting," Hunk says. "You fat pig." It's weird -- Hunk is a _nice guy_. He minds his manners and helps old ladies cross the street and doesn't like to talk about anyone badly. Something about the way his words make Lance's cheeks flush, about the way Lance squirms, shifting his hips, about the sure and certain knowledge that Lance _loves this_ , that he's _getting off on it_ turns Hunk on too. 

He puts a hand on Lance's belly. Lance is stuffing another handful of chips into his face. "You're going to finish that whole bag, aren't you?" 

Lance nods through a mouthful of chips. His eyes are half closed and kind of dazed. 

Hunk swallows, licks his lips. He pinches a hefty roll of Lance's tummy pudge. "No wonder you've porked up so much," he says. He pinches a little harder. Lance groans, throaty and deep. 

"Haven't gained that much," he says rubbing the sore spot on his belly. 

Hunk scoffs. "Keep telling yourself that," he says. "You don't even realize how you look, do you?" 

Lance shakes his head. He's almost done with the chips now. Ate the whole damn bag. 

"All your clothes are too small," Hunk says. He pats Lance's belly. The flab jiggles. "This gut is always hanging out. Everyone can see." 

Lance grunts. "I was pretty skinny before," he mutters. "I'm just filling out." 

Hunk shakes his head. "This is way more than filling out, Lance." He runs his finger down Lance's side, where his fledgling love handles bulge out over the too-tight waistband of his sweatpants. "You've got all these stretch marks coming in. Here -- " He traces a few of the angry red marks. " -- and here -- " Runs a gentle finger along one of the prominent marks near his belly button. "--and here." Squeezes the little roll of pudge that is Lance's other love handle. "You're getting really fat." 

Lance grunts. His chest is red, and his lips are red, and his head is thrown back. "Guess I've put on a little weight," he says, intentionally obtuse. "I just can't stop _eating_." 

There's a greedy, sloppy hunger in his voice. It goes right to Hunk's dick. Lance is getting off on this too, if the bulge in his sweatpants is any indication. 

"All done with your chips, huh?" Hunk says. He crawls forward so he straddling Lance's thighs, holding himself up so he doesn't put too much weight on them. He's still a big guy, even if the discrepancy is not so great as it once was. "I bet you want more, don't you? I bet you want to keep eating, even though the only thing you've done today is pack this big fat belly full of food." 

Lance's cheeks are bright red. He won't meet Hunk's gaze. Lance -- brazen, shameless, confident Lance -- is embarrassed. He's embarrassed and fat and swollen and he's _getting off on it_. Shit. Hunk swallows. He's just as much of a weirdo as Lance is -- but if they both like it, and both want it, what's the big deal?

Lance wants it, right? 

"Um," Hunk says, timidity flooding back. He folds his hands in his lap. "Lance, this is good, right? I mean ... this is what you wanted?" 

Lance sighs deeply. He rolls his eyes. The effect is slightly ruined by the crumbs stuck to his cheeks. "Yes, you moron. Do I have to put up a billboard? You're doing great, Hunk." He clears his throats, and the flush come back to his cheeks. "There's a chocolate cake in the fridge. If. Uh. You want to feed it to me." 

"Oh," Hunk says. "Yeah." He scrambles off the bed, awkward and hard. The fridge is well stocked with all of Lance's favorite junk. On one shelf there's a cheap box cake -- vanilla with chocolate frosting. Hunk pulls it out and opens the box. It's pretty big. Lance eats a lot, but he's not sure he'll be able to handle this, on top of everything else he's eaten today. 

Hunk wants to see him try, though. 

"Should I get uh. A fork? Napkins?" 

Lance shakes his head. "No," he says. "Don't want to waste time with that." 

Hunk swallows. He settles climbs back onto the bed, resting the cake on the crest of Lance's swollen belly. Lance sits up a little more. It's awkward, with all the extra weight. He looks huge, bloated, massive with his swollen belly resting in his lap. He takes a big messy handful of the cake and pushes it into his mouth, barely chewing. Chocolate smears his face. He's breathing heavy and getting crumbs everywhere, but it's like he can't even stop for a second, like he _has to keep eating_ , totally out of control.

Hunk shudders and digs his fingers into his thighs. 

"Eat up, fatso," he says, and he can't keep the dark note of pleasure out of his voice. "No wonder you're turning into such a blimp. You can't help yourself at all." 

Lance shakes, his hips pressing up pathetically, and moans through a mouthful of cake. Hunk shudders. Lance is messy and fat and _totally out of control_. He keeps stuffing himself, pressing handfuls of cake into his mouth so fast he can barely swallow. Crumbs fall out onto the bed, onto his chest. It’s a mess. Disgusting.

“What a fat fucking mess,” Hunk says. 

Lance’s eyelashes flutter. He grunts through his mouthful of cake. Hunk slips a hand under the waistband of Lance’s sweats. Lance’s belly presses against his wrist, and he moans a little as Hunk starts to jerk him off. Even that’s not enough to distract him from his food, though. He keeps feeding, stuffing cake into his fat face like he can’t even help himself. The cake is all but gone. Destroyed. Nothing but crumbs left. Lance brings the tin foil pan to his face and licks off the last remnants of icing and cake. 

“Such a fucking glutton you can’t even let a crumb go to waste,” Hunk says. 

Lance closes his eyes, gasps, and comes all over Hunk’s hand, cake and icing smeared all over his face. He lays there gasping and bloated. Hunk drags his hand, slick with cum, down Lance’s chest and over his fat belly. 

“Pig,” Hunk says. “You disgusting pig.” 

Lance is quiet for a moment, and holy shit. Did Hunk go to far? Was this too much? 

But then Lance huffs out a soft laugh. “Guess you like the teasing thing too, huh?” 

Hunk can feel his cheeks heating up. “Uh. Yeah.” 

_Like_ is an understatement.

******

It's not like it's the _only_ thing Lance thinks about. Food. Eating. Pigging out and porking up. The startling and rapid changes to his body. The whispers, and tight clothes, and pointed stares.

It's not the only thing that Lance things about, certainly, but he does think about it a hell of a lot. 

In class, they're discussing the tactical strategies to deal with single or multiple engine failure. Lance read this chapter in his book weeks ago and even then considered it pretty elementary. This lecture is taught by Doctor Westing, grey haired and grizzled and very brilliant but terrible at explaining anything. Lance stopped paying attention to his lectures months ago. He's bored and thinking about what the cafeteria might be serving for lunch today. It's a Tuesday, so maybe pizza? The cafeteria pizza isn't good: flavorless cheese over tasteless sauce on bread-like crust. It's greasy and gross but Lance likes it well enough. He likes it well enough that he seems to eat three or four or, lately, five slices every time it's on the menu. 

Yeah, so he'll probably have some pizza, and some fries, and maybe some ice cream. Definitely ice cream. They haven't talked about it but Hunk has made a point of bringing Lance a nice, big bowl of vanilla soft serve every time they have lunch together, right at the end of the meal, when Lance is almost sure he's too full to eat any more. The ice cream is sweet and good and slides down effortlessly, especially when Lance can see in Hunk's flush cheeks and intent, pleased gaze how much he enjoys seeing Lance eat it. 

It makes Lance feel all warm and fuzzy inside thinking about it. He's turning into a real sap. He leans forward slightly and sighs happily and ... oh. 

His belly is pressing into the edge of the desk. 

Wow. He swallows and glances quickly around to see if anyone else has noticed, but the rest of the class is sunk into the same dull torpor he is, except for teacher's pet Keith, who is at the front of the room scribbling notes. 

He's such a suck up. 

Lance leans forward a little more and lets his belly relax, so that soft roll of flab eases onto the desk. Instantly he feels hot and huge. Sparks run up his spine. He's so fat that the desk is cutting his belly in two. He eases a hand under the desk to cradle the lower, fattier part of his belly. It's really getting pretty huge. It fills his whole hand, yielding and butter-soft. That's not exactly new though. This other roll, the one that's filling in right below his increasingly pudgy breasts -- that's new. 

All those bowls of ice cream and candy bars and extra burgers that Hunk has been plying him with have to go somewhere, after all. 

Lance shivers and wills himself to pay attention. This is really not the time. Later, tonight, he'll let Hunk tease him. He'll stuff his face while Hunk prods his fat gut and wonders how long it'll be before Lance is too much of a huge fatty to fit into the desk at all. He can almost picture it: thighs and ass spilling over the edge of the seat, belly wedged in so tightly that the jiggly upper roll covers half the surface of the desk, flabby chest heaving, fat cheeks red, struggling pitifully to squeeze his bloated, obese body out of his seat while the other students point and jeer and ... 

Jesus. He looks up. 

His cheeks are hot. Class is not the time for super kink fantasies, Lance-y boy. 

Quietly, he sneaks his phone out and hides it behind his book. When Doctor Westing turns to the board to scribble some incomprehensible flight path diagram, Lance picks up his phone and takes a quick picture of his belly spilling onto the desk. _Maybe_ he leans forward a little, exaggerates how big he looks. Whatever. It's still pretty incredible, considering how skinny he was just a few months ago. 

He sends the picture to Hunk, and Hunk's reply comes instantly.

_Damn. Warn a guy, won't you?_

Lance grins. _Help me celebrate the milestone tonight?_

_I'll pick up some cake_

Lance smiles. Hunk really is a good guy. It's amazing, honestly, that it took Lance so long to realize how perfect they are together. But then, it's even more amazing it took him so long to realize that he totally _gets off on big a fat pig_. Never too late to learn.

_Ice cream too_

_Aye aye, captain_

This is not an isolated incident. It's becoming harder and harder for Lance to ignore how much he's changed physically. He can't put a number on it, because he hasn't weighed himself, but the changes are obvious. He's on his second or third set of new clothes, and even those are getting tight. He doesn't own a shirt that doesn't pull around his belly, and the sleeves of a lot of his shirts bite into his flabby upper arms. His face looks different, too. He'd always been sharp featured and sleek -- a handsome guy. He still is, of course, but now he's got a double chin and pudgy cheeks. He doesn't love it, honestly, but Hunk tells him it makes him look comfortable and friendly and well fed, which doesn’t sound too bad.

Yeah, Lance is definitely looking well fed. It's never more obvious than in the morning, when they're dressing for class, and he catches a glimpse of Hunk's back in the mirror over his bureau. Hunk is a big guy, taller and broader than Lance will ever be. And although he's working out some, he's still got that delicious comfortable layer of softness over his muscle. He looks big and strong and cozy -- round tummy, solid waist, broad, muscular shoulders. His skin is warm and dark and smooth. 

He's really hot, Lance thinks. He's not sure why he didn't realize it before. Hunk's a gorgeous guy. 

What's even hotter, though, is the contrast between Hunk's body and Lance's. He glances at himself in the mirror. His belly flops forward in a heavy, plush roll. When he moves even a little -- leans to the side or bends forward -- all his soft fat bunches and jiggles and folds. Hunk's chest is flat and massive. Lance's has softened into two increasingly obvious pudgy handfuls. His upper arms are jiggly, striped with a few stretch marks. His ass is wide and round and slightly dimpled. Even his feet have gotten fatter. 

It's wild. Lance didn't even know feet could get fat. 

He's not bigger than Hunk -- not yet -- but looking in the mirror all Lance can think is that he looks like someone who has fed and gorged and pigged out for four months and packed on a huge amount of weight without any regard at all for his health or figure. The visible signs of his gluttony are undeniable. 

It's wild how much that turns him on. He grabs his belly and shakes, and he can feel all his other flabby bits shake too. 

Hunk, now wearing his uniform shirt, meets his gaze in the mirror. 

"What are you thinking about?" he asks, softly. 

Lance shrugs. "Just thinking about what a fat pig I've let myself become," he says.

Hunk frowns. "Is it too much? Do you want to stop? If you want to stop, we should stop." 

"Hunk, man, calm down," Lance says. He's still so nervous about all of this, even though it was mostly Lance's idea. "I don't want to stop. I just ... It's only been four months. I've gotten really big, haven't I?" 

Lance swallows. His cheeks are red. They're red pretty often now, with how out of shape he's let himself get. 

Hunk nods. He steps up behind Lance, and Lance can feel Hunk's round, firm belly press into his back, feel Hunk's solid reassuring hand on his waist. "You've gotten pretty big." He puts his big hand on Lance's gut. "Maybe we should slow down. Take it easy. Let your body have a chance to get used to all of this." 

He pats Lance's belly. The flab wobbles a little. 

Lance nods. "Maybe," he says, reluctantly. "I guess that's a good idea." 

Hunk smiles. "You could even start coming to the gym with me. I'm walking proof you can be a fat guy and still be in shape, right?" 

He grins and flexes in the mirror, and Lance rolls his eyes and laughs. The thing is, though, Lance doesn't want to be a fat guy and in shape. When he thinks about it, there's something really hot about how easily he gets winded now. How even walking up a flight of stares leaves him short of breath. How even attempting to run a mile would leave him gasping and red-faced and breathless, shirt riding up over his belly, everything wobbling, every single other person in the gym staring in horror at what a big, fat, out of shape pig he's let himself become. 

It's so hot he has to bite his lip. "Yeah," he says. "Yeah, maybe I will start hitting the gym.” 

*****

Hunk has to pinch himself when he thinks about how _good_ things are right now. Really. He’s got an angry black and blue on his arm as proof. He can’t help that he’s a natural worrier. Even though he’s happier than he can ever remember being, he can’t help the doubt that creeps in. 

Because things are _really_ good. He’s almost at the top in all of his classes (would be, if it weren’t for Pidge, but hey, she’s a supergenius). He’s in better shape and feels more confident than he ever has in his life. He’s a semester away from graduating and getting an appointment to the combat forces of the Galaxy Garrison. And … well. And _Lance_. If all the rest of that stuff is good, then things with Lance are great. 

Hunk has dated before, a little. There were the requisite awkward dances in middle school: holding hands and teetering back and forth with an amenable female classmate, a quick kiss in the parking lot. Later, after he got to the Galaxy Garrison, there was an older student his freshman year who had flirted with Hunk so blatantly that he couldn’t have helped but to be flattered. They hadn’t been in love or anything, but they’d fooled around a few times and even once (very awkwardly) had sex. 

So Hunk had done all the things a kid his age was supposed to do, but he’d never really cared. Sex, in his limited experience, had been exciting but kind of weird, like skydiving. Not something he wanted to do every day. Not something he even thought about very often. 

It’s not like that with Lance. It’s like some missing circuit in his brain has been completed because Hunk can’t get enough of Lance: of his laugh and his smile and his _body_. It’s really weird. He knows it’s really weird. He’s never been attracted to anyone a quarter as much as is attracted to Lance now that he’s gotten chubby, to the idea of Lance getting chubbier. 

He loves touching Lance: the velvet smooth plushness of the skin over his ribs, the fascinating texture of his stretchmarks, the divots and dimples of his ass. He loves the way Lance gets when he’s had too much to eat: needy and soft and turned on, so eager for pleasure and for once in his life not worrying about being the cool guy. 

He kind of just loves Lance. A lot. Every day it’s harder for him to deny. Not that there’s any reason to deny it, except that he’s not sure that Lance feels the same way. He’s not at all sure Lance sees this as anything other than a particularly fortuitous alignment of sexual proclivities. 

Hunk is too scared to ask. 

He will, one day, but he doesn’t want to ruin what they’ve got going on now. 

It’s a Friday night and he’s back at the gym, doing a few miles on the treadmill. He doesn’t feel great but he doesn’t feel awful. Mostly, he’s thinking about later, after he gets done, when he goes back to the dorm. He and Lance have plans to order pizza: Lance insists he can eat two full pies. Hunk has serious doubts, but he’s willing to give Lance a chance to prove him wrong. 

He’s three miles in when he hears someone climb onto the machine next to his. It’s not surprising. The gym is busy this time of night. He still doesn’t quite get the whole ‘gym etiquette’ thing — is it rude to look up and see who’s next to you? Is it rude to ignore them? And what’s with all the weird bro handshakes?

Something catches his eye — movement beside him. Hunk glances over and — 

Holy shit. He nearly falls off his treadmill. _Lance_ is on the machine next to him, stretching his arms overhead so that his tee shirt, which hasn’t fit him in at least three months, rides up and his belly, striped with stretch marks, flops out. He sees Hunk looking and grins. 

“Hey buddy,” he says. “Thought I’d take your advice and pound some tread.” 

“Oh,” Hunk says, feeling faint. “Cool.” 

When he’d made that suggestion he’d kind of assumed Lance might get some new gym clothes. That tee shirt is ridiculous, absolutely skin tight. It rides up over his love handles, and it digs into his fleshy upper arms. His fat perky moobs stretch the fabric, nipples clearly visible. The sweatpants aren’t much better. His ass and hips strain his sweatpants to overflowing, and they even look a little tight around his meaty thighs. 

Fuck. This isn’t what Hunk had been picturing at all. 

Lance starts walking at a normal, steady pace. He’s not even running but Hunk can still see all that wobbly new flab jiggle. His belly, his arms, his ass — quivering all in time. Hunk is still running, but he barely notices, can barely pay attention with Lance looking like that next to him. His eyes are glued to Lance’s reflection in the mirrored wall of the gym. He bites his lip when Lance pulls the hem of his shirt down, only to have it ride up again immediately. 

Hunk swallows and turns his attention to the display of his own treadmill. He’s got another mile to go. Normally, he’d be begging for the end at this point, but right now he can’t imagine leaving as long as Lance is still here, huffing along beside him.

After only a minute or two, Lance turns up the speed on his treadmill to four miles an hour and breaks into a slow, lumbering jog. It’s almost obscene: the heavy, almost liquid sloshing of his belly and breasts, the way his plush thighs push past each other, how heavily he’s breathing, like he can barely manage even this. 

Not even six months ago Lance was lean and thin and fit. Now he’s so fat and out of shape that he can barely jog. It’s only been a few minutes but he’s already heaving and panting and sweating through his tee shirt. He sticks with it for another minute or two, and then drops the speed back down. 

Hunk can’t look away. His eyes must be the size of dinner plates. 

Lance wipes his forehead and slaps his belly. “Guess I’ve really let myself go. Not so easy to jog now that I’m lugging all of this around.” He digs his fingers into his soft, flabby gut. 

“Uh,” Hunk says. “UH.” He can’t even think straight right now. His brain feels like it’s short circuiting. He cuts his own run short, staggering a little as the treadmill slows to a stop.

Lance is still plodding along, belly hanging out for the whole world to see. When he sees that Hunk has stopped, he stops his machine too. He’s all rosy and out of breath. There are sweat stains under his arms. He hasn’t even been here for ten minutes and he looks totally spent.

Still gasping, he says, “Nice run, man. Think I’m going to go take a quick shower.” 

Clumsily, he steps off the machine. Hunk watches for a moment, mesmerized by the sway of his big, chunky ass and fat thighs, by the sight of his love handles curving over the straining waistband of his sweatpants, by the way the plump flesh of his upper arms is starting to swell and soften. All the evidence of his gluttony and laziness and _indulgence_ is right there for anyone to see. He's a fat, out of shape pig, and it's so hot. 

Hunk takes a deep breath. He steps off his own treadmill and follows Lance into the locker room. Lance is standing at his locker, in the back corner of the room. It's empty, and Lance's labored breathing echoes loudly in the tiled room. 

Lance pulls off his shirt. Somehow, his bare belly looks even more massive. Hunk clears his throat. 

"Oh, hey Hunk," Lance says, glancing over his shoulder. "You all done?" 

Hunk nods. He clears his throat. He watches the way that the fat around Lance's waste folds into three thick rolls when he leans to the side. He sees it every day and yet it's still astonishing how quickly he's gotten so big. 

"Uh," Hunk says. "Yeah." He shuffles from foot to foot, an old nervous gesture he used to adopt to make himself seem smaller. "I'm glad you came out. You know. Nothing like two bros getting their gym on." 

Lance makes a little huffing noise in the back of his throat. "Oh yeah," he says. "I have to say, you're pretty impressive there, Hunk. I saw you tearing up those miles." He grabs his gut and shakes it. "It's a lot more work hauling all this flab around then I realized. Remember when I was on the cross country team in high school? I think my running days might be behind me." He jostles his belly again. 

Hunk swallows. He takes his own shirt off, reaches for his own towel. "Um. You should keep coming with me, Lance. Take it slow. You can build back up to it." 

Lance snorts. "I don't think so, dude. I mean, first of all, getting all gross and sweaty was never my favorite thing, but now? No way. I’m way too fat for this.”

Hunk swallows. "Um," he says. 

Lance drops heavily onto the bench in front of the lockers. He spreads his legs, lets that big, soft lower roll of his belly drop between them. He rests his hands on it. "Come on, Hunk," he says, his voice low. "You have to admit that I've really let myself go. I've turned into a lazy, fat pig. Maybe if I shed some of this lard -- but I'm never going to be able to go on a diet. I can't stop myself from stuffing my face. I'm just going to keep eating and getting bigger and fatter and more out of shape." 

"Um," Hunk says. "That's really, really hot, Lance." 

Lance looks up. His cheeks are red. "Yeah," he says, smiling like he knows exactly how much Hunk is turned on.

"It's really hot, but ..." Hunk swallows. "I um. I know we've done a lot of kinky stuff but I think getting off on the idea of you being out of shape takes the cake. That’s weird. Isn’t that weird? It's ... I don't want you to be unhealthy, Lance. I really like you. I want you to be around for a long time." 

Lance rolls his eyes. "I like you too, you big lump," he says, smacking Hunk's belly. "But hey. I'm not a kid. I know what I'm getting into." 

"You've gained a lot of weight," Hunk says. "You've ... Lance, you were breathing so hard from ten minutes on the treadmill." 

Lance seems almost to shiver, patting his belly again. "I know," he says. "I haven't even put on that much yet. Imagine when I'm so big I can barely haul my fat ass up off this bench, when even walking a few feet is enough to make me out of breath." 

"Damn," Hunk says. He ducks down so he's on his knees in front of Lance. He puts his own hands on Lance's belly. "Lance ..." He presses his fingers into Lance's flab, squeezing hard enough that Lance squirms. It feels _so good_. "I just ... I kind of want you to stick around for a while, you know." 

Lance rolls his eyes. "Hunk, I’ve wanted to be a pilot since I was a kid. All kinds of crazy dangerous stuff can happen on those missions ... You never told me to be careful when I talked about applying to the Galaxy Garrison." 

"Yeah," Hunk admits. "I know. But ..." 

"I like this," Lance says, vehement. "I want to do this. I never felt ... yeah, I might have bragged about my dashing good looks, but I never felt like I _belonged_ in my body until now. " He sighs. "I'll come to the gym with you. I do like getting to show off my bod. Definitely no running, though." He grins. "And I'll go to the doctor and get a physical. I have to go back and see if I made weight, anyway." 

Hunk snorts. " _If_ you made weight? Lance, you must pushing two hundred pounds ..." 

Lance shrugs. "You never know," he says. "I've been working hard, but I wouldn't want a few pounds to stand between me and meeting the Galaxy Garrison's official biometric standards." 

Hunk rolls his eyes. "I guess we better go get dinner then." 

Lance grins. "I like the way you think, Hunk. I'm pretty sure you and I have a date with some pizza." He slowly gets to his feet. “I need a shower first, though.” He grabs for Hunk’s shirt. “Come on,” he says. “Let’s save some water.” 

Hunk’s cheeks turn red -- someone is definitely going to overhear them -- but lets Lance drag him towards the furthest shower stall. After everything they’ve done, what’s a little exhibitionism? 

*****

Lance isn't cold very often anymore -- he's got plenty of his own insulation now -- but the exam table is like ice against his bare thighs. The boxer briefs he's wearing are newer, but they already cling too tightly. His worst instincts overruled his best intentions, and although he'd meant to start eating a little bit better, his appetite has only grown the last few months. 

He slips his cold fingers under his belly. That's one handy thing; he's got a built in hand warmer now. It feels heavy and soft, covering his fingers, pressing against his thighs, rolling around his back in thick love handles to his wide ass. It's shocking how big he is now. He still forgets a lot of the time. He's always bumping into things and knocking stuff off his desk and getting wedged in tight. 

He likes those moments. They're a visceral, permanent reminder that he's never going to be that too-skinny string bean kid again. It's embarrassing, but Lance likes that too. It's funny: this hot, sweet tickle that runs up his spine, delightful and strange and terrible all at once. _Everyone_ can see what a fatso he's let himself become. _Everyone_ can see how far he's let himself go. 

He doesn't really care about everyone, though. He mostly cares about what Hunk thinks, and fortunately Hunk seems to like watching Lance squirm. A lot. As much as Lance likes the squirming. They just fit together, two complementary halves of the same whole. All that time Lance wasted chasing after pretty girls and handsome boys he didn't even really _like_ was just practice. Now he's got Hunk, and Hunk seems pretty thoroughly wooed, if Lance does say so himself. 

The door creaks open and Dr. Ocampo totters in. He looks up, frowns, and then looks back down at his tablet. 

"I must have the wrong room ..." 

"Hey doc," Lance says. "Long time no see." 

Ocampo peers at him again. "Lance?" 

Lance grins. He knows what it looks like when he does that now: fat cheeks bulging, double cheek prominent. "The one and only," he says cheerily. 

Ocampo clears his throat and reads over Lance's file. "I see last time you were here you were ... underweight. I recommended that you follow a high calorie diet and undertake a routine of strength training so that you could meet the Galaxy Garrison's minimum weight requirement." 

Lance nods, a hand resting on his belly. "I remember, Doc. I took your advice to heart." 

Ocampo nods awkwardly. "I can see that." He clears his throat again. "Well, let's get you weighed, then." 

Lance feels all hot and tingly, and fights the feeling down. He's been waiting for this moment for months. Finally, he can put a number on his efforts. Finally, he's going to know _exactly_ how fat he is. He gets down off the exam table, awkward with his new bulk. He steps onto the scale and looks down. Can't see his feet at all with his big belly in the way. The numbers shift back and forth for a moment before settling. Lance holds his breath. 

"Oh my," Ocampo says, sounding truly stunned. 

Lance grins. "Have I made weight, Doc?" 

***** 

Hunk is at this desk reading when the door to the dorm room opens. He glances over his shoulder. It's Lance, as he knew it would be, and he looks happy. 

"How'd it go?" Hunk asks. 

Lance beams. "Not underweight," he says, pumping a fist. "You are looking at someone who has officially met the minimum height and weight requirements for a Galaxy Garrison officer." 

Hunk snorts. "Met? More like flattened." He swallows. "How much ..." 

Lance drops his bag on the bed and pulls off his sweatshirt. He strips off his tee shirt and stands proudly in the middle of the room, big belly bulging. He looks more huge than ever, these days. His gut spills over his waistband, drooping to mid-thigh, folding in two at his belly button, which is a dark, warm cavern pillowed by two jiggly rolls of tan skin. His arms are fat. His thighs are wide. His ass is huge. HIs breasts are soft and flabby. 

Lance slaps his gut, a percussive noise. All that soft flab jiggles wildly. "Two hundred and thirty four pounds," he exclaims. "I've put on a hundred and twelve pounds since my last physical." 

Hunk swallows. "Wow," he says. "I knew you'd gotten fat, but .... wow. Lance, a hundred and twelve pounds?" 

Lance nods. "I'm officially obese," he says proudly. "Ocampo couldn't _believe _how much I packed on."__

__Hunk stands up. He puts his hands over Lance's own, cradling his big flabby paunch. "You really have made a pig of yourself," he murmurs. "Wow."_ _

__Lance presses his belly forward, spongy mass of fat pressing against Hunk's round but firmer gut. Hunk slides his hands over Lance's generous sides and lets them rest on his ass, squeezing just a little. Lance leans forward over the obstacle their bellies present and kisses Hunk, opened mouth and sweet._ _

__When they break apart, Lance is smiling at him with this dopey expression on his face that makes Hunk's heart go pitter-patter._ _

__"I really like the glasses," Lance says, reaching up to tap on the bridge of Hunk's reading glasses. "Makes you look smart. My big, handsome engineer."_ _

__Hunk feels his cheeks heat. He doesn't get embarrassed these days about the kinky stuff -- Lance licking chocolate pudding from his chest and belly, fucking Lance while he pigs out on chocolate cake, no hands needed -- but compliments? He's still not so good at those._ _

__"Uh," he stutters. "You look really good too. Great. Gorgeous. I can keep going with the adjective bingo if you want."_ _

__Lance smiles, and jiggles his belly again. "I look _big_ ," he says, and he really does. Huge. It’s almost unbelievable._ _

__Hunk grins and then tamps it down. "I don't know," he says. "I still have thirty pounds on you, skinny."_ _

__Lance blusters, chubby cheeks turning red. "That's not fair! You're taller than me and you're all muscle-y and stuff." His sloshy fat belly wobbles. "Besides, at the rate I'm going I'm going to outweigh you in no time."_ _

__Hunk closes his eyes and imagines how Lance is going to look with thirty more pounds packed on his slim frame: bigger gut, fatter ass, more cellulite dimpling his thighs. "Is that a bet?" he asks, voice dropping low._ _

__Lance presses forward so they're stomach to stomach again. Hunk's hands find Lance: inches of smooth pillowy flab to squeeze, delightful stretch marks pink against his tan skin. Lance leans forward, nips Hunk on the ear. "It's a promise," he says._ _

__Hunk takes Lance in his arms -- big and comfortable and _right there_ \-- and presses him close. There's so much of him and Hunk loves him so much and the best part of all is that it's all growing and expanding, more and more and more. There'll never be enough for Hunk._ _


End file.
